“Weatherman says possibility of freezing precipitation tonight.”

The news actually came from a weather app on her smartphone, but I think the writer of the note (my sister) is secretly hopeful the invisible weather forecaster is right.

I’m not.  But then, I’ve argued with the lady about various matters for over sixty years.  We won’t break off our relationship over this tiny disagreement.

Still—her words had consequences.  As I read them, I immediately thought of the cloth covering above my lovely little deck outside the back door.  A sail, they call it—but it doesn’t move the deck an inch away from its foundations.

The sail is good for one purpose and one only.  It keeps the sun off the heads and out of the faces of the denizens of said deck.  For a period of time, it does.  As I said, it doesn’t move the deck, while the sun itself runs its circuit daily, moving over and past the point where its rays are blocked.

One purpose.  The sail doesn’t keep the rain off the deck; won’t stop the leaves from piling up on the furniture.

And, it certainly won’t hold the weight of any so-called freezing precipitation.

The consequence of my sister’s reminder?  I had to loosen the ropes tying up the three corners of the sail and, folding it up (about as well as any of you would fold up a fitted sheet), stowed it in the backyard shed to await a promised spring.

My thoughts were a little sad as I untied the ropes from the eyebolts under the eave of the old house.  I was remembering lovely afternoons and evenings spent with those I love.  Family.  Friends.

Seasons change.

The things that protected us in the bright, blasting heat of the long summer days are no longer protection for us.

We celebrated a family Thanksgiving at our home last week.  The house was full and noisy with four generations represented at our table.  There was music and a dinner blessing.  There was discussion about whether pimiento was a good ingredient to have with celery sticks.  There might even have been the haze of smoke from a new turkey recipe gone slightly amiss.

There was joy.  And thanks.

And memories.

Their placement wasn’t purposefully planned.  The ladies, I mean.  We just suggested seats for folks where we thought they would be most comfortable.

But, I looked again today at the photographs of our gathering and the sadness hit anew.  One entire side of the main table (the teenagers being allowed a little space to sit at a table of their own) was taken up by four ladies in our family.

Four widows.

I see their faces—the lovely men who once sat beside them at our table—and the memories bring tears.  Well—not so much the memories as their absence from us now.

In many ways, they were shade from the hot, blasting sun of life.  Brothers are like that.  Fathers and grandfathers are too.

Seasons change.

The widows soldier on.  I see great strength there.  I see the heartache too.  They all still grieve in their own ways.

And yet. . .

And yet, there is—still—bright hope for tomorrow.

His promises never dim; they never go amiss. The day is coming when we will be forever in His presence.  Together.

But, what do we do with the changing seasons?

Here?  Now?

Like the changing weather, our protection today may be gone with tomorrow’s storm.

Seasons change.  But our Heavenly Father?  He never changes.  And, as he always has, like a mother, He will comfort us. (Isaiah 66:13)

I don’t know about your mother, but when my mom used to comfort me, she didn’t do it from across the room.  She gathered me into her arms, pulling me onto her ample lap.  I was held close.  And tight.

You know what ample means, don’t you?  It means big enough.  And sometimes, more than big enough.

You know who else is big enough?  The One who doesn’t change with the seasons.  In every part of our lives, He gathers us in, close to His loving heart.

And, He is shade from the burning sun.  Protection from the storms. A sure, strong wall of defense from everything that threatens.

He gathers us in, under his ample wings.

And, He holds us there.

Seasons change.  They do.

There is nothing here to fear.

Even without a sail.

 

“Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.”
(Edith Sitwell, British poet, 1887-1964)

“He will shelter you with his wings;
you will find safety under his wings.
His faithfulness is like a shield or a protective wall.”
(Psalms 91:4, NET)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2023. All Rights Reserved.